


Stitching the snips

by TheFierceBeast



Series: Sweet Cherry Wine [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse Universe, Bobby Singer is smoking hot in the sack and we all know it, Bottom Crowley, Can we get Crowley Lives to be a tag please, Canon Compliant, Crobby - Freeform, Crowley lives, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Kissing, Gentle Sex, Gentleness, Grooming, Haircuts, Hand & Finger Kink, Human Crowley, M/M, Oral Fixation, POV Crowley, Pet Names, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Protective Bobby Singer, Rimming, Self-Indulgent, Slow Sex, Thumb-sucking, Top Bobby Singer, Witch Crowley, crowley deserves to be loved, crowley doing magic, hot bear on bear action, loving relationship, slow deep and hard, unapologetic porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 15:58:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12610256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: A massively self indulgent sequel to Sweet Cherry Wine. There’s no real plot to this, it’s just stupidly fluffy porn. I just want to write Crowley surviving and finally being treasured and adored (and well-catered-to in bed.)Can be read independently of Sweet Cherry Wine but it'd possibly help for context if you read that first. Rick is Crowley's chosen new name.





	Stitching the snips

Trust his ludicrous life that he’d finally find his peace, here, in a war zone. Here in the most dangerous place he’s survived yet, he’s the least powerful he’s been since he was Fergus and yet somehow he’s ruling the roost with mere conjuring tricks. It’s enough to make Rick laugh. He laughs a lot, these days.  
  
He laughs at Tom’s aghast face when he whips his todger out even whilst energy crackles the buckling walls of the building they’ve commandeered as their latest base. “Don’t get excited, darling.” He’d usually be more discreet of course: his pee dribbles into the neck of the empty beer bottle and there are two almost-strangers outright staring at him and it’s almost enough to give a bloke performance anxiety, even without the thundering ambush on their camp. But then he catches Bobby’s smirk of amusement and he can’t hold back his own grin. “Actually, could you be a dear and hold the bottle for me? I really need two hands to handle this whopper.” The remaining colour drains from Tom’s face and the bark of Bobby’s laughter drowns out the noise of angelic attack. Eventually, even Tom has to smile.  
  
“Since where’d you get pins from?” Bobby asks, as Crowley drops them into the bottle neck, one by one, his lips moving quietly around the incantation. He winces as another shot cracks against the wall.  
  
“Was a tailor, love. I attract them like a magnet.”  
  
“You had ‘em all this time?”  
  
No. He gave all of that up centuries ago, but a few months ago he found a stack of travel sewing kits in the looted-almost-bare wreckage of a Gas n Sip and he’s been wondering why he didn’t carry this stuff around with him before. Rick doesn’t answer, just flashes Bobby an enigmatic smile. And of course, Bobby doesn’t press it: it’s one of Bobby’s most appealing qualities.  
  
“This’ll protect us, Preacher?” Lopez asks, dubious, eyes flicking between Rick’s face and the piss-filled spell-bottle he’s currently stoppering with a wad of duct tape.  
  
“It’ll protect _me_.” He shoots Lopez a charming smile, and Lopez rolls his eyes and crosses his arms and watches as Rick jumps up on the table and stashes it in the rafters, caring only about Bobby’s eyes upon him.  
  
It’s quieter, after that, just for a while. Like an invisibility blanket has been draped over the building. In a way, it has.  


*

  
 “Let me trim your hair.” It’s been long enough since the last angel attack that they ventured out of the building for supplies. Laid tarps to collect water overnight, fetched enough from the little creek half a mile into the hills that there was some left over for washing as well as drinking, and Rick intends to fully make the most of it. That’s the worst part about this place: not the threat, or the death, or the darkness; the dust. It gets everywhere and you’re never free of it and all water has to be boiled first, even if it’s just for washing, because the rain’s so toxic.  
  
Bobby runs a hand through the rinse-limp curls that go past his collar now and wrinkles his nose. “I’m fine, thank you very much.”  
  
He’s fine. Oh, he really is. Even with his beard grown out full and his hair a tangled disaster. Rick narrows his eyes at the sudden warmness that stokes in his chest, that feeling that he’s only just starting to learn how to cope with, never mind enjoy. He raises his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “Suit yourself. If you enjoy looking like a caveman, far be it from me to dissuade you.” He holds out the scissors, another little sewing kit perk, and Bobby looks at him like he’s an idiot, until Rick says, “Well, can you at least do me?” and Bobby takes the scissors from him, almost like he’s afraid they’ll break.  
  
They are admittedly tiny, embroidery scissors really, the loops of the handles so dainty that Bobby has a little trouble getting his fingers through. That warm feeling spreads, as Rick watches him cuss under his breath at it. “Turn around.”  
  
His breath is fluttery on the back of Rick’s neck. The first touch of fingertips gentler still. “If you bollocks it up, I’ll put rat shit in your coffee. Just so you know.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. How hard can it be?” The little snips tickle, the trimmed ends trickling down the back of his neck. But it feels good. Clean. Bobby’s fingers brushing the stray clippings away are gentle. Careful. Caring. His lips even more so: the barest brush against the newly exposed nape of Rick’s neck, his breath a warm caress against Rick’s ear as he murmurs, almost too low for even Rick to hear, “How’s about I _do you_ later?”  
  
Rick shivers. He brushes off the knees of his jeans, even though the hair clippings can’t possibly have got there: his whole weird, mortal body feels tingly. Raising his voice, he says, “Gentlemen? Anyone else for the Vidal Sassoon experience?” Lopez and Tom look up from their Poker game and both of them shake their heads.

 

*  
  
Lopez and Tom. They’re both as stupid as Rick has come to expect humans to be, but they’re not the worst strays he and Bobby have picked up on their travels, these rogue hunters who come and go. They’re not even nearly the worst. The worst thing is, the lack of space. It’s also, sometimes, the best thing. Rick has always had good hearing. Some people assumed it was a demonic power when he was Crowley, or perhaps witchcraft, but really, he just pays attention. The scissors snick, softly, and he regards himself curiously in the inside of the biscuit tin lid that’s serving him as a mirror while he spruces up. The boys think he’s busy. Think he can’t hear them through one thin wall.  
  
“He’s banging Singer, I’ll bet you a can of peaches.” Lopez. Rick smirks silently at his distorted reflection.  
  
“Man, don’t talk about Preacher Rick like that.” Tom, the good choirboy turned outlaw. “He’s a good man.”  
  
“Banging your buddy don’t make you less of a good man, what, you prejudiced?”  
  
“No! No, c’mon, man. I mean… he’s different. Can’t you tell?”  
  
Rick’s eyes narrow. He leans in closer to the tin mirror, follows the curve of his jaw with neat little snips of the blades. Lopez says, “Sure I can tell. He’s creepy.” And Rick nearly cuts himself stifling a giggle.  
  
“He’s…” That pause feels momentous, even when heard from this far away. Rick’s hand stills. Tom says, “Holy.” And that weird feeling is back in Rick’s chest, the same but different, and completely impossible to understand.  
  
“Like I said. Creepy.”  
  
“It feels like he knows stuff. Knows God, you know? I dunno. I feel safer with him around.”  
  
Lopez says, “He sure knows a lotta Hoodoo for a man of God.” Rick’s reflection pulls an ‘it’s a fair point’ face at him. He pulls his top lip down over his teeth and snips off a few stray uneven hairs around his nostrils.  
  
“Saved us ain’t he? He’s kept us safe.” Rick puts down the scissors and rubs a palm over his perfectly manicured beard. “We owe him our lives.” Tom says, in the next room. Rick bites his lower lip. That stupid feeling in his chest won’t go away. Then, a little more quietly. “So… you think Singer’s the, y’know… catcher, then?”  
  
“Well, duh. Pretty sure it’s spiritually illegal or somethin’ to stick your dick in a priest.” And Rick bites his lip harder to keep his laughter inside.  
  
*  
  
Another thing that sewing kit is good for is that Rick finally mended his suit jacket. The rest of his old clothes are long gone now – he relinquished those frayed suit trousers with regret, only because they shrunk each time he got the rare opportunity to wash them – replaced by more practical gear, the trappings of his old self gradually falling away. All except his jacket, and the bloodstained grey silk of his tie, spooled up carefully in an inside pocket. It’s sentimental. Rick never realised how sentimental he was. Perhaps he wasn’t, before. But this ruined bit of bespoke tailoring feels like the last tangible reminder he has of a life he left behind – a life that, for once, he isn’t one hundred percent averse to remembering. He’s patched that angel-blade slash neatly: it’s not even the biggest rip in his fabric any more. Smoothing down the folds, he sets the jacket aside. Starts to unbutton his shirt.  
  
Bobby watches him from their makeshift bed, silent and rapt, propped up on one elbow with his lips slightly parted. He’s undressed already, a blanket pooled over his lower half. His upper half very decidedly on display. Rick swallows, wets his lips. Steps out of his jeans and folds those too. Unhurried. Feels the weight of that clear, blue gaze on his skin. Plenty of people wanted Crowley. Perhaps it’s just different now because he’s human. These feelings, running deeper and wider than that iceberg-tip of emotion he’d glimpsed as a demon ever warned. Deeper and wider, but so minutely focused… He places his underwear on top of the pile of clothes, pats out the creases. One of Bobby’s hands has disappeared beneath the blanket: Rick smiles. Walks silently to the bed and stands there, looking down. Admiring the man gazing up at him.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“Hello, darling.” Bobby’s other hand beckons, a tiny economical gesture, and Rick drops to his knees without a second thought, settling comfortably on the pile of bedding. “So…”  
  
“Uh huh.” The way Bobby’s looking at him, the naked hunger, has him hard already, his skin flushed in the dim chill of the room.  
  
“Do me.” Bobby laughs softly at that, a sound so full of affection that it takes his breath away. He lets Bobby pull him closer. Cup his face in both hands, thumbs stroking gently across his freshly trimmed beard.  
  
“I like this.”  
  
“Mmm?” Rick leans into the touch, brushes his lips across the pad of one thumb, thrills at the soft noise it draws.  
  
“Yeah. You look handsome. Handsomer.”  
  
Bobby has elegant hands, Rick thinks. Big, sure. Strong and capable and deft like Rick’s, but more... elegant. Rick turns into his touch, nosing at Bobby’s palm, ghosting kisses there, until Bobby leans in and kisses his forehead. Tips his face up gently until he can get at his mouth. How did Rick survive before this? All those thousands of fates he sealed with these very same lips, yet this man, these lips, can feel like the only ones. Certainly the only one that matters. Now Bobby’s lips part beneath his, and Rick is melting, turning to putty in those big, elegant hands. Now, he can let himself. They don’t get much opportunity for this – either one or the other of them has to keep watch, or if they’re in a bigger group there’s no privacy, or they’re simply too tired or too dirty to feel up to it. But tonight – tonight is perfect. The others are out patrolling the perimeter. They’re shielded by magic from enemy eyes. They even have fresh blankets.  
  
He trails a slow palm down Bobby's side, revels in how that draws a breathless little gasp against his lips. He's so big. All lean muscle from the road, but broad with it, his waist and thighs still thick despite their unpredictable diet. The sun here is the type you cover up from: Bobby's skin is crossed with scars and clumsy, DIY sigil tattoos, yet still pale and fine, furred with peppery hair. He makes Rick's mouth just _water_. "Slow down." Slight whisper against his mouth and Rick's hand stills where it's just dipped beneath the blanket, come to rest on one firm thigh. He turns his head, catches Bobby's gaze, all dizzy focus. Like Rick's the only thing in the world. Bobby’s fingers stroke the back of Rick's neck. Soporific. His voice almost apologetic. "Want this to last. You get straight to the main attraction, it ain't gonna."  
Bobby lowers his head. Presses their foreheads together, and the room is so quiet and still and filled only with flickering firelight that Rick can hear their breathing, matched and slow. He murmurs, "I can be patient."  
"That so?" Bobby can be terse when he speaks. Gruff. Right now, his voice is low, a husky whisper.  
"I'm a very patient man. I decide upon an endgame and I pursue it until completion."  
"Well, you do, at that." Another kiss to the lips, leisurely and just the right side of wet and Rick can feel his own pulse, fluttering in his throat. "Lay down. On your belly."  
A mattress is an untold luxury these days. Rick feels like he's sinking into it, his head pillowed on his crossed forearms. Tries not to just drift off to sleep as Bobby's hands sweep the length of his back, linger in the places that he seems to know by intuition are the most tired, the most sore. There's no reason he should be an expert at this. Perhaps it's another thing that just feels better when you're human. When you’re in love. Rick groans as strong fingers knead into the meat of his lower back, that tense spot just above the curve of his arse. It's relaxing and maddening at once, makes him want to get off but not work for it. Just lie back and take it. His dick throbs, aching hard and untouched against the blanket. "Whatever have I done to prompt this treatment?"  
Bobby leans close, over his back, and he can feel the lush warm weight of him: the fuzz of hair, the yielding press of his balls and the hot stiffness of his cock against the back of Rick's thigh. "What treatment?"  
"Why are you spoiling me?"  
"Because you deserve it." Sometimes, the feelings get too much, tangled up in a muddy confusion of emotions. Rick turns his head against the mattress. Worries the tip of one thumb between his teeth. It's comforting. Grounding. Bobby's voice is even quieter when he adds, "And cos I want you."  
"Who wouldn't?"  
He can feel the laugh that prompts, vibrating between them, skin on skin. "Well, they can’t have you.” Bobby’s voice drops lower, a soft, rumbling growl. “You’re mine. I wanna taste you. Tease you. Til you can't remember your own name."  
Rick can't help it: he shivers. "Sounds like a good deal for me."  
"Oh, it is."  
He's so damn delicious when he's in this mood. Rick feels himself spread, gentle and firm, then the hot stir of breath and the plush, sloppy rasp of Bobby's tongue, his beard, and it’s all Rick can do to hold in a gasp and push his arse higher in silent entreaty. Strong hands grasp his hips. Haul him higher. Position him to Bobby’s liking. And everything’s just the buzz of coarse hair between his cheeks, the keen wet pleasure of that tongue licking him open and Rick presses his face into the clean blankets, closes his eyes and moans around his thumb still in his mouth, letting himself be had. “Wanted you like this for months.” Bobby’s breath against his spit-wet flesh feels cool. Soft brush of kisses, tracing the crease of where thigh meets cheek and Rick whimpers, spreads his legs wider, drinks in Bobby’s soft noise of appreciation. “Roll over for me.” He does. Bobby lies alongside, hooks his right leg over Rick’s right leg when Rick’s thighs just fall apart of their own accord, lazy and wanton, and leans across so he can kiss him all deep and thorough. And Rick twines his fingers into fine curls, cradles the back of Bobby’s head to him. Sighs into their kiss when he feels two of Bobby’s fingers press into him, firm, fucking him looser.

“Lube’s here.” He feels for it with one hand and Bobby smiles against his mouth.

“We can just do this…” His fingers crook and Rick swallows, hard.

“How dare you. Absolute tease.” They break their kiss for just long enough for him to tear the little packet with his teeth, then Bobby’s fingers are pushing even deeper, slicked, palm deep, pulling shaky breaths from Rick’s chest. His legs are jelly already, trembling with how good it is, even though neither of them have so much as touched his dick.

When Bobby eases his fingers out, it’s such a loss of sensation that Rick slips his thumb back into his mouth, his eyes fluttering closed, and he registers, blind, the caress of Bobby’s palm along the side of his face. “You OK?”

“Just need something…” He presses back against solid warmth as Bobby coaxes him onto his side, slides in place behind him, “in my mouth…”

“Incorrigible, ain’t you?”

“Mmmmm…” The hot slide of Bobby’s dick against the back of his thighs is enough to make him gasp, to arch his back. He’s _enamoured_ of Bobby’s dick; thick and cut and blushed all dark and rosy hard and Rick _moans_ around his thumb in his mouth and bends one knee up, positioning expectantly.

“Baby… baby boy…” Bobby whispers it so quietly that it’s more of a breath in Rick’s ear, sending a kick through him that’s only half physical. Bobby’s hand patting around for a rubber is clumsy; Rick stays it with a touch.

"No... Bare. I want to feel you." The little fluctuations of his breath, his heartbeat, mean everything. One big hand cradles, supporting Rick’s raised thigh, holding him steady as Bobby’s cock slides fat and wet, across his perineum, teasing his arsehole, until the hitches in their breath say neither of them can take it anymore and Bobby starts to nudge inside. He’s big and it’s overwhelming and all Rick can process is _good, yes, good, so good,_ sucking harder on his thumb to counterbalance the unbalancing feeling of too-pleasurable as he’s slowly stretched to fullness.

“That feel alright?”

“Is it in yet?” His voice is a ragged gasp.

Bobby laughs, his belly tensing against Rick’s back, gives Rick’s shoulder a soft bite then kisses the sting away, sweet, syrupy kisses, lingering and hypnotic as he moves just barely. He’s in to the hilt; Rick can feel the heavy softness of their balls pressing together. Carefully, Bobby withdraws his hand, lets Rick’s thigh down, curls his arm about his waist so that he’s encircling him fully, holding him as close as possible, lips reverent against his shoulders, his hair, his neck. He’s hardly moving, just the slightest rocking of his hips and Rick moves back against him, deep and quiet and intense, clutches around him and feels Bobby’s sigh of rapture against his sweat-damp nape.

"Baby... God, yes…" Oh, that sweet, persistent press inside… Rick’s hard-on has wilted with the distraction of being stuffed so full, but it soon perks up again as Bobby fondles him fully hard, starts to stroke, firm but maddeningly slow, setting an insistent, unrelenting pace that tears a low desperate noise from Rick’s throat.

“Please.” It’s awkward to turn enough to kiss him, but Rick wants his mouth, to look into shrewd blue eyes gone all bright with desire, so close they blur. His hand, unoccupied now, clenches in the blanket, this build-up so slow, so momentous, that it feels a little like torture. Like a storm over the desert that’s been gathering for days and just needs to _break_. It takes him by surprise: when he feels himself finally tipping over, “Please… Bobby… fuck… I’m… please…” Bobby doesn’t pick up his pace, just strokes him through it slow and deliberate, shuddering and panting and clenching down on Bobby’s dick, dazed with the intensity of it.

When he’s spent, trembling, Bobby gathers him even tighter, arms cuddling him snug, chin resting on his shoulder so Rick can feel the rise and fall of his chest, heartbeat like a bass drum, voice throaty and low, dark and sweet as molasses. “I’m close, Ricky. I’m close, baby. You’re so hot. Gonna make me blow.”

“Yes…” He’s almost sore now, it’s almost too much, overstimulated and raw, but God it feels so _right_. “Do it, Bobby, do me, give me everything.” And he feels the pulse, inside, hot and pure like he’s cradling this man’s heartbeat, just as Bobby inhales deep as if he’s breathing Rick in, exhales in a stunned grunt as his hips still completely, buried, closer than blood.

It’s near impossible to move, but Rick is nothing if not revenge-driven. Bobby’s softening dick slips out of him with a whimper from both of them and, turning, Rick brushes a brief kiss to his lips before he’s wriggling down the mattress to get his mouth on that beautiful cock. It’s worth it for the broken noise he makes, finally, Bobby’s hands going to his hair, stroking through it so gently still, despite Rick’s tongue on him, lapping past the point of sensitivity. He fits in Rick’s mouth so perfectly. Rick murmurs, satisfied, around his mouthful. The sap scent of him, the bitter taste of his come; exquisite. “You know where that’s been, right?” Bobby drawls and then winces as Rick chuckles.

He lets him go and crawls, exhausted, up the mattress, suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to sleep. “Somewhere wonderful.”

Bobby’s voice is tender. “You’re not wrong. C’mere.” He kisses Rick’s forehead and Rick can’t hold in a shiver: Bobby drags the blanket up over them both. “How long we got, d’ya reckon?”

“Until..?”

“Til Lucy an’ Ethel shatter our peace.”

Wriggling closer, Rick runs a hand across the curve of Bobby’s belly beneath the blanket, head resting against the steady drum of his chest. “Let ‘em find us.”

“Really, _Preacher_? You don’t care?”

“ _Me_ care? They’ve guessed anyway, you know. And what are they gonna have to say about us, exactly?”

“Nothin’ we can’t answer.”

“Precisely.” Rick’s eyelids are heavy. The dim, mesmerising glow of the firelight isn’t bright enough to keep him awake. And Bobby’s embrace is warm and the steady thud of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest is soothing. And if the two outlaws outside turn out not to be decent blokes after all and take exception to the Preacher shacking up with the gunslinger, it’s not like they’re going to murder their meal tickets while they sleep… Rick yawns, jaw-cracking wide. Feels, distantly, Bobby drop a kiss on the top of his head, as he drifts comfortably off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you anyone who reads this, especially if you comment x


End file.
